Lew. Ah, foul shrewd' news!-Beshrew the very heart! I did not think to be so sad to-night, As this hath made me.-Who was he, that said, The stumbling night did part our weary powers? Lew. Well; keep good quarter, and good care to-night; The day shall not be up so soon as I, To try the fair adventure of to-morrow. [Exeunt. SCENE VI.—An open place in the neighbourhood of Swinstead-Abbey. Enter PHILIP and HUBERT, meeting. Hub. Who's there? speak, ho! speak quickly, or I shoot. Phil. A friend :-What art thou? Hub. Of the part of England. Phil. Whither dost thou go? Hub. What's that to thee? Why may not I demand Of thine affairs, as well as thou of mine? Phil. Hubert, I think. Hub. Thou hast a perfect thought: I will, upon all hazards, well believe Thou art my friend, that know'st my tongue so well: Who art thou? Phil. Who' thou wilt: an if thou please, Thou may'st befriend me so much, as to think I come one way of the Plantagenets. Hub. Unkind remembrance! thou, and eyeless night, Have done me shame :-Brave soldier, pardon me, That any accent, breaking from thy tongue, Should 'scape the true acquaintance of mine ear. 1 shrewd, i. e. piercing, biting. 2 Who, for whom. Phil Come, come: sans compliment, what news abroad? Hub. Why, here walk I, in the black brow of night, To find you out. Phil. Brief, then; and what's the news? Hub. O, my sweet sir, news fitting to the night, Black, fearful, comfortless, and horrible. Phil. Show me the very wound of this ill news; I am no woman, I'll not swoon at it. Hub. The king, I fear, is poison'd by a monk: Than if you had at leisure known of this. Phil. How did he take it? who did taste to him? Hub. A monk, I tell you; a resolved villain, Whose bowels suddenly burst out: the king Yet speaks, and, peradventure, may recover. Phil. Who' didst thou leave to tend his majesty? Hub. Why, know you not? the lords are all come And brought prince Henry in their company; [back, At whose request the king hath pardon'd them, And they are all about his majesty. Phil. Withhold thine indignation, mighty heaven, And tempt us not to bear above our power!I'll tell thee, Hubert, half my power this night, Passing these flats, are taken by the tide, These Lincoln washes have devoured them; Myself, well mounted, hardly have escap❜d. Away before! conduct me to the king; I doubt, he will be dead, or ere I come. 1 [Exeunt. Who, again, for whom. It is impossible to indicate all the errors in Shakspeare of this kind. SCENE VII.-The orchard of Swinstead-Abbey. Enter Prince HENRY, SALISBURY, and BIGOT. P. Hen. It is too late; the life of all his blood Is touch'd corruptibly; and his pure brain (Which some suppose the soul's frail dwelling-house,) Doth, by the idle comments that it makes, Foretell the ending of mortality. Enter PEMBroke. Pem. His highness yet doth speak; and holds That, being brought into the open air, It would allay the burning quality Of that fell poison which assaileth him. [belief, P. Hen. Let him be brought into the orchard here.— Doth he still rage? Pem. [Exit BIGOT. He is more patient Than when you left him; even now he sung. P. Hen. O vanity of sickness! fierce extremes, In their continuance, will not feel themselves. Death, having prey'd upon the outward parts, Leaves them insensible; and his siege is now Against the mind, the which he pricks and wounds With many legions of strange fantasies; Which, in their throng and press to that last hold,2 Confound themselves. 'Tis strange, that death should sing. I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan, Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death; His soul and body to their lasting rest. Sal. Be of good comfort, prince; for you are born part. 1 i. e. corruptively. In their tumult and hurry of resorting to the last tenable To set a form upon that indigest' Which he hath left so shapeless and so rude. Re-enter BIGOT and Attendants, who bring in King JOHN in a chair. K. John. Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow-room; It would not out at windows, nor at doors. There is so hot a summer in my bosom, That all my bowels crumble up to dust: I am a scribbled form, drawn with a pen Upon a parchment; and against this fire Do I shrink up. P. Hen. How fares your majesty? Joff: K. John. Poison'd,-ill-fare;-dead, forsook, cast Nor let my kingdom's rivers take their course [tears, P. Hen. O, that there were some virtue in my That might relieve you! K. John. The salt in them is hot.Within me is a hell; and there the poison Is, as a fiend, confin'd to tyrannize On unreprievable condemned blood. Enter PHILIP. Phil. O, I am scalded with my violent motion, And spleen of speed to see your majesty. K. John. O cousin, thou art come to set mine eye: The tackle of my heart is crack'd and burn'd; And all the shrouds, wherewith my life should sail, Are turned to one thread, one little hair : My heart hath one poor string to stay it by, i. e. chaos. 2 shrouds, in its true sense of ropes. Which holds but till thy news be uttered; And then all this thou see'st, is but a clod, Phil. The Dauphin is preparing hitherward; As I upon advantage did remove, Were in the washes, all unwarily, Devoured by the unexpected flood. [The King dies. Sal. You breathe these dead news in as dead an ear. My liege! my lord!—But now a king,—now thus. And then my soul shall wait on thee to heaven, Now, now, you stars, that move in your right spheres, To push destruction, and perpetual shame, Sal. It seems, you know not then so much as we; The cardinal Pandulph is within at rest, Who half an hour since came from the Dauphin; purpose presently to leave this war. Phil. He will the rather do it, when he sees Ourselves well sinewed to our defence. module, for copy, transcript. This untoward accident really happened to king John himself in passing from Lynn to Lincolnshire. |